


Skin Deep

by Kholran



Series: Under Your Skin [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Past Character Death, Pre-Slash, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 06:14:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3370877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kholran/pseuds/Kholran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ceremonial magic that forever marked Thranduil with the dragon tattoo on his back was supposed to lead him to his destiny. So far it’s caused nothing but problems, and he still hasn’t met anyone with its match. But there is something about the human from Dale…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skin Deep

**Author's Note:**

> This all started with the random thought “how awesome would elven tattoos be” which then merged with the Soulmate!AU concept.

Thranduil’s feet swing idly beneath his seat. If he stretches, he can make his toes touch the ground, but when he had tried doing that, his father had fixed him with the sort of look that said this wasn’t the place to be fidgeting. Princes aren’t supposed to fidget, no matter how long they have to sit in one place, but he’s warm and the ceremonial robes are itchy and he’s nervous about what’s about to happen.

“The magic will show you your destiny,” they had said, and he has no idea what that’s supposed to mean. All he knows is that it has something to do with the markings. There’s a running stag in black ink spanning Oropher’s chest, and a matching doe on his mother’s, and he doesn’t know exactly how all of that stuff works, only that it means they were meant to find each other. At least, that’s what his mother says when she looks at his father in _that_ way.

The heavy doors carved with elaborate silver symbols open then, and the hooded figure beckons him inside. He slides to the floor and casts one last look at his father, who gestures him forward. Thranduil doesn’t know what’s going to happen when the doors close and the darkness surrounds him, but he steps inside.

~*~

Sunlight comes creeping slowly into the room from above, casting it in the sort of gold only early morning can create. The rays catch specks of dust, tiny motes that float lazily about until some eddy of air sends them swirling off into the shade. It’s mid-summer and the air is already warm, but not oppressively so. The network of caverns and high rock arches above see to it that it never gets too hot.

Thranduil has been awake for hours already. He doesn’t sleep much anymore.

Bare feet pad silently across the smooth stone floor to the polished basin and the trickle of fresh water that’s always flowing. He cups his hands under it, letting them fill and then overflow before raising them to his lips. No matter what the temperature, his dreams always leave him parched.

He splashes the rest of the water onto his face and then retreats back to his bedchamber, finding the robe he’d discarded the night before still draped across the chair in the corner.

Thranduil catches sight of _it_ over his shoulder in the mirror as he decides what to wear and quickly pulls the collar of his robe up to cover it. He doesn’t want to see it. Not now, not ever. He knows what’s there. The wings that curve over his own shoulders, the serpentine tail that winds down his spine, and the reptilian head that nestles right there at the nape of his neck. It’s terrible in its beauty and he’s never hated anything more.

It feels like some big cosmic joke at his expense.

He straightens to face the mirror properly, studying his own reflection for a few long moments. It hasn’t changed. It won’t ever change. The healers continue to tell him that there’s always hope, but he doesn’t believe that. Burns caused by dragonfire can’t be fixed.

Thranduil turns his head to the left, bringing the small table there into view, and reaches for a fine silver chain. It’s simple, compared to the rest of his finery. A single white gem set onto silver backing, but the magics that lay upon it make it glitter and gleam like a star in the night sky. He lifts it to his neck, careful not to snag his hair in the clasp. The weight of it settles into the hollow at his throat.

When he looks at his reflection again, the scars are gone. His skin is smooth and unblemished, and his left eye is clear and blue and completely unclouded.

He still can’t see out of it. The magic isn’t _that_ good.

But the rest of his people can forget. He hides the scars under a glamour and the ink dragon under his clothing and they can look at their king and not have to remember.

They do remember, and they barely look at him except in the way that one might look at a plague carrier, but that’s beside the point.

“ _The magic will show you your destiny._ ” The voice from so long ago echoes in his mind. Destiny. He gives a derisive snort into the silence of his chambers. If only he’d known. He had thought it would simply lead him to his intended, like it had for his mother and father. _She_ 'd come close, with the serpent wrapped around her ankle, but it seemed destiny didn't settle for _'close enough'_.

He still hasn’t met anyone else with a dragon on their body. Or maybe he has and they’ve just been better at keeping it secret than him. It’s not the sort of thing one goes around talking about openly. His is just the sort of secret that everyone knows about. They have since he’d returned home with it on his back years ago.

It might have been different if the beast was dead. If his father and his allies had succeeded in killing it, and had returned home alive, maybe his people would be more willing to meet his eye. Instead, it had escaped, and Thranduil had returned home alone, a king without a queen, and they still look at him as though it was his fault. As though he had summoned it somehow.

Maybe he had. Instead of sending his intended to him, destiny had sent the real thing.

Maybe he’ll do it again some day. That’s what they’re afraid of, he knows. It’s still out there, after all, and he still has its doppelganger etched into his skin.

Sighing, Thranduil smooths his hands down the front of his robes, and then steps away from the mirror. The kingdom is his responsibility now, as is raising the son _she_ left behind, and he has a busy day ahead. There’s a delegation from Dale due before mid-day, and while dealing with men isn’t one of his favourite pastimes, it’s preferable to his meetings with Thorin and the rest of his kin.

He’ll take men over dwarves any day.


End file.
